


reunion

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Eggsy has PTSD, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Kingsman: The Golden Circle, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25230673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: And he remembers—an angry hiss, as sharp as water droplets splashed on a hot stove, as a strike to the face:Do as you’re told! Move it!“Harry.” Eggsy's voice is tight. "Do you blame me?"
Relationships: Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Tilde/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50





	reunion

Eggsy wishes he knows why the dreams are coming back.

It's not the anniversary or a lack of sleep or anything he can logically put his mind to. He hasn't even visited one of the many memorials for Valentine's and Poppy's victims.

They begin normally: him strolling down one of the palace halls or gardens or even the streets in his usual suit. Sometimes, it’s the prince coronation uniform, the one from his wedding, or he has glasses, or even his old trackies and trainers.

But then it goes wrong: a humming in the mind of his mind. A tune. _Almost heaven._ A shot. _West Virginia._ A head whipping backwards. _Blue Ridge Mountains._ A bright burst of colors. _Shenandoah River_. A strangled curse. _Life is old there, older than the trees..._

Then—faster—a foot on the mine. _Take me home._ A hard shove. _Country roads._ A click. _To the place._ A sharp “remember your training!” _Where I belong…_

An explosion rocking the earth—

With a strangled gasp, Eggsy wakes up in a room that still feels unfamiliar, throwing the covers off of him and onto the polished tiles, his ears ringing, hands clenched around that useless minesweeper—

“Eggsy!” A hand touches his shoulder, and with that familiarity, he begins to come back. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he gasps, then turns to his wife, hair falling over her shoulders and eyes still blinking from sleep. “’M sorry I woke you.”

“Eggsy, don’t worry about it,” Tilde replies. Her hand rubs his bare shoulder. “What happened?”

“Just a dream.”

“You can tell me. I can't promise I'll understand, but I'll listen to you." 

Eggsy shakes his head. “It's...it's nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Tilde bites her lip, but she knows now whether to push or not—and tonight’s not the night. “All right,” she says softly. She touches his shoulder again, and he lets himself be pulled back onto the plush pillows and silk sheets, trying to close his eyes.

* * *

It gets to the point where he can no longer sleep through the night. He's tried sleeping pills and soothing herbal teas and even meditation, but they keep coming, claws sinking into every corner of his brain, even during the daytime. When he steps outside in the heat, he can smell the wavy dark-green leaves, the rich scent of the red-brown dirt. When he showers, he feels the stickiness of blood clinging to his skin, the sweat creeping down his back. When fireworks go off for another Swedish holiday, he hears Merlin singing, the final swell of John Denver before a burst of fire. 

Tilde worries, as does his mum—his in-laws cluck over him but give him slightly exasperated glances—and Eggsy tries to brush it off. It's all over now, and he just needs to remember that, step up his therapy and concentrate on the little things: his meal breaks in the daily packed-schedule; the clasp of the gold band on his left finger, different from the emptiness on his right pinky; the fact that Tilde's father is getting older and older every day, that Tilde's still not pregnant with an heir to the throne (much to everyone's consternation).

They're excused by his army days or childhood or blue rash—something he and Tilde cooked up when the press started getting too suspicious of his absence when Tilde was in critical condition. Still, he wishes he could forget more easily. 

His mum calls these moments _flare-ups_. Eggsy tries to put it away, to remember he's in another world now, where there are irritants such as press and galas and diplomatic meetings. There are bad days, even now, where he has to sit where he can see the exits, where a too-close person makes him reach for his belt, where standing in the open makes his chest too tight.

It's when he's clearing out his quarters in hopes of keeping his mind busy that his fingertips brush over cool metal. 

The chain is a bit tarnished, but the medal itself is in almost pristine condition. He fingers the gold K, traces the date on the back. Harry pressed it into his hands when he tried giving it to him, saying that he needed the memento more now that he was leaving Kingsman—

And just like that, a door opens in his mind, seeping like a wound: Merlin, tapping his clipboard. Roxy, falling from the sky. Harry, pouring a martini. A gun firing, a spray of blood, black asphalt. The medal fitting into the groove of the secret chamber with a click. The jailhouse phone sticky and slippery in his palm. _Oxfords, not brogues._

His hand closes around the metal, squeezing. He knows what he has to do.

* * *

The Heathrow airport is crowded as ever, but this time, no one's pointing cameras or shooting him curious glances. Still, he pulls down the green cap further over his forehead, smooths down his shirt, wrinkled from the flight, and heads to the curb to flag down a taxi. 

On the way there, he texts Tilde: _Landed OK._

Tilde replies almost immediately: _Good. Miss you already._

His fingers rise above the keyboard, then stop, clicking his phone off and sliding it into his pocket. He closes his eyes, leans his head against the backseat. The city lights flash across his eyelids, even at this hour, with the familiar screeches and honking of London traffic. 

His mind wanders. He should pop by Jamal's or stop at the Black Prince, while he's here. It would be good to see the old neighborhood—though he wonders if he's changed too much to aimlessly wander through like he used to. Dean is dead; the blue rash had taken him when V-Day didn't. It still makes him feel that fierce sense of relief, though he keeps it quiet around his mum, who's thought of his stepdad long gone for a while. 

The taxi pulls to the edge of the curb, braking with a smooth halt. "Is this the right place?" 

Eggsy glances out the window. "Yeah. Thanks." He slides out after tipping the driver, who speeds away like someone's after him. 

The front window looks as polished and gleaming as he remembers. But the lights are dim; maybe he shouldn't have come this late. That was stupid. He could call another cab and—no. Maybe this was a mistake; he can get a hotel and catch the next flight in the morning—

"Eggsy?"

Through the door, Eggsy stares. 

It's been so long, but Harry seems virtually unchanged all this time. The same blue pinstriped suit, the same neatly-parted hair, the same one-lens glasses Merlin designed. The last thought makes his throat clench. 

"Eggsy?" 

"Harry," he manages. "I..." 

"What are you doing here?" 

"I ran away," he begins, then tries to start over; it sounds so childish. "I got on the first plane here, didn't even pack a proper bag, but I needed to see you. Please." 

Harry's eyes soften. "Come in." He turns around the room. "I'm afraid we don't have anything to eat—" 

"I don't care about that," Eggsy interrupts. 

"Drink, then?" 

Harry's calm voice brings back his manners. "If you have it, please."

Kingsman's lobby is very much the same: the grandfather clock, the antlers, the mannequins in a row. It's like he never left; he looks around one last time before he follows Harry up the stairs.

“I'm surprised there's no cowboy hats or anything here,” he says.

Harry's lips quirk. "Absolutely not. We're still very much a British shop. But we do have the distillery line, of course, and more options of American-tailored wear." 

"It must help that our national colors are the same," Eggsy volunteers. 

That actually gets a smile this time. "Well. It's a showier taste set sometimes. Do you know, the orange tuxedo you proposed is actually still rather popular?" 

Eggsy laughs. "You remember that? I don't know what I was thinking back then. But I'm glad it works." 

"It not really worked on one person," Harry says quietly. 

Eggsy shakes his head. "Aw, stop. You flatter me." He walks through the door, scans the room: dining table, screen above the fireplace, chairs lined up. "Really, it all looks great, Harry. You've been doing a good job here. I miss it here." 

"Surely you like your life in Sweden." 

He doesn't notice the carefulness in Harry's tone. Surprise, yes, but something else buried deep. His old skills must be slipping. "It's not bad. Mum and Daisy love the palace. Tilde's parents actually halfway like me. Food's great, if too fancy at times. But...I miss London." No paparazzi or staff or bodyguards. No expectations or facades to put on. No carrying the weight of the crown whenever he speaks or walks or takes a shit. 

He sits down when Harry pulls out a chair, mechanically taking the offered glass. “Thanks.” 

Harry doesn't mince words. “What brings you back?” 

“Do you...” Eggsy starts, then freezes. The chair across from him is empty, and so is the place near the large screen. The table’s polished perfectly smooth. No blue holographic flashes. There’s a scratch on the edge of his chair arm, a slash, an opening of something red and rank, stark against a pale neck. A gleaming silver flash, a burst of fireworks, a cloud of smoke—

“Eggsy? _Eggsy._ ”

And he remembers—an angry hiss, as sharp as water droplets splashed on a hot stove, as a strike to the face: _Do as you’re told! Move it!_

“Harry.” Eggsy's voice is tight. "Do you blame me?" 

"What?”

“Merlin,” he manages. It’s the first time he’s said it in years, and it closes off his throat, a punch to his airway. “Merlin. Do you…do you blame me?”

Harry’s silent for a moment, then says, “It’s been years…”

"God damn it, Harry, stop being a gentleman,” Eggsy snaps. “It was my fault. I was responsible. I was just so stupid, I didn’t notice, and…all this fucking time and you must have hated me and I never—”

 _Get it together._ He tries to remember the breathing, the countdowns, the training; he has to calm down, he can’t be like this; he’s not a twenty-year-old anymore; he’s an adult, a prince, an agent— _there’s no time for emotions_ — _man up—you have to be the next Galahad—_ water is rising above his chest—they’re going to die—his fist smashes through the glass—

And the water bursts through, and he rides the wave like he’s six years old again and the news just hit him—and Harry sits there, silent and surely befuddled, hand still clasped around his drinking glass. He's crying now, he realizes, but Harry doesn't go to him, and he hates that. Hates that Harry won’t scold him, won’t fight back, won’t even hit him. Hates that they’ve been pulled apart forever and Harry’s forced to put up with his selfish arse and he’s falling apart and he misses _everything_ but can’t go back.

“I can't—I’m so fucking sorry, Harry,” he manages at last, looking up and meeting Harry’s eyes for the first time. Tears roll down his cheeks. “I'm sorry I lost you.”

"You didn't lose me because of Merlin," Harry says lowly. 

That’s at least enough to at least shake him out of his head. “What?”

Harry's lips twist. “You must trust my word as a gentleman,” he only says.

Eggsy all but laughs in his face, grief replaced by sudden, almost childish anger. Now Harry wants to pull that card? 

“Then why did you push me away, then?” Eggsy demands. “If that's not true, why haven't we spoken for so long? Why don't you text or call or write or send a messenger pigeon? I'm not an idiot, Harry. I know you blame me; he was your best mate and I killed him because I was so fucking stupid—"

“Stop,” Harry says, like a pin on the verge of being pulled.

“No,” Eggsy interrupts. There are hundreds of retorts and pleas and wishes he wants to say, but the one that slips out is “What else could it be?”

It’s not quite a flinch, but something snaps in Harry’s eye before settling, like a lightning flash. He stands, and Eggsy’s heart jumps in this throat and he shuts up. 

He thinks it's because of Harry's voice, name sharp on his tongue, edged raw with something desperate, breathing hard, chest rising and falling heavily. It's only until then that Eggsy looks at Harry—really looks at him: His hair may be still swept up in the same elegant coif, but has prominent streaks of grey at the temples. His suit seems the same with pristine dark navy wool and matching navy-and-pink striped tie, yet hasn't been sewn by Andrew or any of the innocent Kingsman tailors who'd been burned and blasted alive by the missile. His left eye is blacked out by the darkened lens of his new glasses, the other sharper and more focused, looking at Eggsy like a seabound man stares at a fixed point in the horizon.

Eggsy remembers a hint of those years ago, caught helplessly in this gaze now. 

_Check the body!_ Eggsy had shouted at Merlin, who told him, if rather sharply, that there was no body to check.

And then—Harry stepping out of nowhere, alive and well—felt like a thump of a bullet against his suit. He’s wanted this for years, these emotions laying dormant—anger, frustration, desperation, desire to please, fondness, nostalgia, lust. How Harry’s eyes tracked him, how Eggsy’s eyes tracked him back, throat dry and skin burning hot, heart seeming to alternate between pounding nonstop and freezing.

“I want you to…” Eggsy can’t fucking think, not with Harry standing less than an inch away. “I want you to…”

“To what?” Harry asks.

He looks up, feels a hand rise, and he braces himself.

But Harry’s hand only grips his forearm; Eggsy can feel every individual finger grip tighter and tighter with each second. When did they get this close? They hadn’t—not since the Statesman cell, the plane ride home, the office with its tabloid covers… 

“Tell me,” Eggsy says.

The grip falls away, and Eggsy finds that his eyes are squeezed shut, fingers clenching into Harry’s jacket.

“If you're looking for some sort of catharsis, I'm afraid you won't find it here.” He shakes Eggsy’s hand off, walks past the table, and turns the handle, all while Eggsy sits, frozen and befuddled. “I think you should go.” 

It's worse than being hit. “Harry?”

“Go,” Harry repeats more harshly. 

Eggsy stares at him wordlessly. All of his mind, the beating of his heart cries out _no._

But he knows that he has no right. He doesn’t have Harry anymore.

And it’s his fault Harry’s been left with nothing.

He takes a deep breath and one last look at Harry before shuffling forward and passing through the door.

It clicks shut behind him, a finality.

He has to go home, he thinks. He has to go home and everything will be all right. He'll be all right. Put together again. He'll go home and sit with his wife and family and everything will be as it was. Everything will be fine. Everything will come together. 

And one day, the dreams will stop.


End file.
